Page 59 of Never Alone
I hadn't realized I was holding the pen at all. I set it down again, more deliberately this time. I pressed both my palms flat against the prep table.
"Miranda had to use the 2007 piece. Cole's report on Ryan. It came up in court. She used it as evidence of a pattern. Of how I'd married a man who'd done the same thing to me Ryan had done."
Mrs. Thompson said nothing.
"It was the right argument. It worked. The judge leaned forward when she said it." I closed my eyes for a second. "I just hadn't expected to hear it that way. From a stranger. With Nicholas in the room."
"How is your fiancé doing through all of it?"
I almost laughed. The word still landed strangely in this room, between the two of us, when Mrs. Thompson knew exactly what the engagement was.
"He held my hand under the table."
She smiled, slightly.
"He's been good," I said. "Better than good. He didn't have to take any of this on. He has."
"You're lucky to have him on your side, sweetheart."
"I am."
She nodded, picked the towel back up, and started wiping flour off the front of her apron.
"Alright. Take your inventory home if you want. I'll do the count. Go be with your son this afternoon."
"Mrs. Thompson?—"
"Go on."
She went back to the kitchen with the towel over her shoulder. I stood at the prep table for a second longer. Then I picked up my purse from under the counter and headed for the door.
The drive home took eight minutes. The building was on a quiet street, one of those mid-rise places that always smelled faintly of someone else's cooking in the stairwell. I let myself in with the key Cole had cut me the day we'd signed the lease.
The kitchen light was on at the end of the short hall. I heard Cole's voice—low, patient, explaining something. Then Noah's voice, asking a question I couldn't quite catch.
I set my purse down on the bench by the door and hung my coat.
I walked toward the kitchen.
They were at the table together. A model plane was spread out in pieces across a clean section of the table—wings, fuselage, tiny plastic propellers, a tube of glue, a sheet of decals. Cole had Noah's hands in his. He was showing him how to press a small piece against another small piece and hold it for thirty seconds while the glue set. Noah was concentrating. His mouth was a little open, the way it got when he was thinking.
Neither of them saw me.
I stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Cole said, "Steady. Don't move it."
"I'm not."
"Good."
Cole counted out loud, slowly.One. Two. Three.Noah's hands stayed where Cole had put them. Cole was watching Noah's hands the way I had watched him watch the judge yesterday—fully, no movement to spare. Noah was watching the piece.
Twelve months ago, Noah would not have been able to sit still for thirty seconds. Twelve months ago, Noah had not had a man in his life whose patience had ever once landed on him as patience.
I didn't know what to call what was happening in my chest.
I stood there until Cole hit thirty.
